


It's Always Sunny In Lebanon

by SeeNashWrite



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Holidays, Humor, familiar people and places
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 13:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17023278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeNashWrite/pseuds/SeeNashWrite
Summary: This is the story of the largely unmentioned Bevell son, who was born out of wedlock many years ago. A reject from the MoLs, he was shipped off to ‘Merica in disgrace, and after prompting from his nephew, is determined to solve the mystery of his missing sister, Lady Antonia “Brain-Diddle” Bevell.Overall Summary Spoiler Alert: This does not go well.





	It's Always Sunny In Lebanon

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a Tumblr friend's birthday so it was a specific request - if you aren’t familiar with the show “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia”, this one may not be for you, just FYI. In any event, I strenuously recommend readers “hear” the non-dialogue parts in your best-worst approximation of a super-snooty British accent, as if a posh older gentleman is telling you of this debacle (for instance, our main character’s name should be pronounced “Buh-nurd”). Imagine your guide is seated with perfect posture in a leather chair near a fireplace, snifter in hand, looking down his nose at you. And of course there’s a damn ascot and a jacket with embroidered monogram, I’m not playing around, neither should your mind’s eye. [wink]

Bernard Bevell was born to one Anastasia Bevell at the worst possible time. She was fifteen, finishing what would be her final year at a private girls’ school, established for and populated by the most posh and elite young ladies, the ones destined for greatness. In Anastasia’s case, this meant a life full of action and adventure, fulfilling family tradition by becoming a member of a prestigious - albeit unknown to most - society. All she had to do was make it to the end of term and pack up her room.

She hadn’t known she was with child, as he wasn’t a terribly active house guest, as it were, quite slug-like, in fact. Then when a particularly raucous round of gas sent Anastasia to the loo, she hadn’t been perched on the throne for long when there came Bernard. It was, to be sure, a less-than-illustrious beginning.

Bernard’s life followed suit.

Anastasia was not allowed to proceed with her plans, in large part because of his existence. No amount of pleading and pledges of sizable donations on her father’s part were accepted. Everyone knew the situation, and as everyone’s opinion mattered, this vexed him, which vexed his wife, which in turn brought their ire down upon their daughter, declaring that her piece of the family fortune would now be bestowed upon her other siblings, and them alone. 

Though Anastasia had not a maternal bone in her body, when she fled from the family estate she brought her son, and everything she could stuff into as many suitcases as would fit into her Aston Martin. She departed in the dead of night, stopping only to transfer Bernard from her valise to the floorboard after an impressive nappy fill. He had inherited his mother’s… constitution.

It should be said, neither Bernard - or Bernie, as he came to be called - nor Anastasia were Bevells in the beginning, and for several years after the estrangement, they struggled, despite the chunk of cash Anastasia stole from her father’s safe on the way out. The ancient, rotting duplex they called home for the first six years of Bernie’s life was never without action, however; they had frequent visitors, many of whom he saw more than once, and they always brought him toys to play with when they’d go upstairs with Anastasia to discuss business. She explained to Bernie that she was a bank of sorts, and that they were stopping by to make deposits.

Bernie knew better, though; they played, too. Those old, creaky floorboards in combination with the old, creaky mattress didn’t muffle much. Bernie couldn’t wait to be a grown-up, so he could jump on the bed and laugh and shout without getting scolded.

While his mother was cold, to say the least, and she did her business double-time at holidays, she never failed to make them special, arranging virtual parades of pudgy cupids and tall Easter bunnies, and then best of all was Christmastime. Father Christmas after Father Christmas after Father Christmas - sometimes two and three at once! - would stop by, and even the occasional troupe of elves would show up. Bernie was proud for the connections his brilliant mother had made. The neighbor children didn’t believe him, so he’d invite them over to see; their parents never let them stay. He felt sorry for them.

The toys were fantastic at these times of year, what with the bows and arrows, and the chocolates and candies, and the army men and train sets. By the time he was five years old, they had moved on to lodgings more suited to his mother’s taste, and the holidays were still filled with sweets and presents, but it wasn’t the same. He hoped after they moved that all of her business associates - especially the Father Christmases - had found new banks for their deposits, ones as exceptional as his mother.

These dealings allowed his mother to integrate herself back into society a bit, and soon she became a Lady, because she’d married Lord Bevell - which is what Bernie was instructed to call his new stepfather. Bernie never  _did_ learn his name, though he  _was_ allowed to call the Lord’s mother Grandmother Bevell. He was largely cared for by a nanny here, a butler there, and his adopted grandmother was loving - she’d made the attic quite comfortable for him, in his estimation. And when his sister came along, he learned she’d been named for their grandmother: Antonia. Bernie himself had been named after the dog.

As time went on, Bernie’s behavior became of concern to all parties - his initial royal flush was not his last. His adoption into the Bevell clan brought along with it some perks, such as a sizable allowance and private schooling. His academic career began with a rousing start, wherein he failed first grade, going on to fail out of many schools, including the last resort, militaristic boarding school where, at seventeen, he was the oldest freshman they’d ever had. The gambling ring he’d begun, including but not limited to betting on squirrel battle royales, ensured his departure, and by the time he was twenty, he’d torn through most of the modest trust fund bestowed upon him at eighteen.

But most concerning to Lord and Lady Bevell was Bernie’s influence on Antonia. Lord Bevell was also a member of the Men of Letters, like his wife’s father, and while Antonia’s mother’s antics had not been forgotten by the elder members, that she had done well for herself in the end had not gone unnoticed. Antonia’s education and training had already begun, courtesy of her father, at a young age. She was exceptional, earning high marks in all subjects with ease, an accomplished equestrian, could best any competitor in fencing.

And she could manipulate the hell out of anyone who stood in her path. 

Antonia loved her older half-brother to the extent he was of use, case in point: taking her to the more questionable areas of the city so she could drink and play billiards, and - as her grandmother would later put it - carouse. She was smart enough not to reveal her actual identity, and so Toni the Tramp became legendary, a name whispered in the pubs, warnings issued amongst friends, then further amongst the pub owners who warned their barkeeps of the pre-teen who would talk them into serving her shot after shot, challenging them to beat her, leaving them stumbling while she nicked from the till. 

Bernie was so, so proud of his genius sister. He considered her his best friend, despite her frequent sneers and insults. Alas, their hijinks were short-lived; she was sent off to Kendricks, and he was exiled to America with what was left of his trust fund.

Settling in Philadelphia, Bernie continued his antics, being conned out of large sums of his money along the way - often by the trust’s manager, Frank - stumbling into circumstances that allowed him to get it back by other means, though he’d fortunately made a great friend not long after he’d been in town, a chance meeting at the meth clinic. Mac frequently borrowed money from Bernie, given their shared love of beer and the resulting hefty tabs, but the thing that solidified their relationship was a love of Christmas. 

His friend’s family did it up right, and Bernie was blissfully surrounded by gingerbread and turkey and sparkling lights on trees. It made him miss the old days, and even made him miss the later days, when he’d be tasked with crawling under the tree at the manor, getting covered in sap, passing Antonia’s presents to her as he located his own. Santa had always been careful to hide his presents at the very back, where his curious sister would not tear into them with her teeth. Antonia always  _was_ partial to biting her way through things; as usual, Bernie admired her style.

The years passed.

Grandmother Bevell took ill and died, and due to a careless secretary Bernie was made aware. After the funeral, a large spread had been assembled for the mourners and whilst in the process of stuffing his pockets with roast lamb, he spotted Antonia lingering in a corner. He rushed over, immediately drawing her into an embrace, which made  _her_ immediately grimace; her only reciprocation was to push him away.

“You smell of meat,” she said.

“Nah, it’s just this lamb, I never get it back home, better stock up while the getting’s good.”

“Your pockets are dripping. And why have you adopted that  _ridiculous_ American accent?”

“I dunno. Hey, wow, Tones - you’re getting fat.”

She glared. “I’m not  _fat_.” A pause. “Do you have anything besides lamb in your pockets?”

“You mean—-”

“I  _mean_ , let’s go  _out_ to the  _stables_.”

“I don’t wanna ride right now, but thanks for—-”

“We’re not going to ride, you buffoon. We’re going to get out of this godforsaken misery. If you’ve nothing of worth on you, then nevermind, I’ll have to find another way to distract myself. I can’t believe you’ve shown up here empty-handed.”

“I had some poppers, but those were for the plane—-”

“Then just swipe some of the wine and meet me there. Hurry it up!”

Bernie grew sentimental. “Aw, like we used to?”

He received no answer; Antonia had already turned and begun walking to the kitchen, so she could slip out the back door.

Bernie learned that day that his sister was not, in fact, getting fat. Like her mother, she had found herself out of wedlock and with child. But unlike her mother, she was already at Kendricks, only a year away from graduation, and she held great promise, such  _great_ promise that she was already considered an asset to the Men of Letters. The headmistress, Dr. Hildegard Hess - the one Toni called “the crone” - had herself been at Kendricks many moons ago and knew of the Anastasia-Bernie situation. Ordinarily, she’d have given a student who’d behaved so irresponsibly the proverbial boot, only she saw future benefit in keeping Toni around, and so she helped Toni cover up her pregnancy by saying she’d been sent away on an apprenticeship. Lord and Lady Bevell arranged for a stately home away from the city, though not  _too_ terribly country, and a nanny was employed, and baby Artie was safe and sound while his young mother finished her time at Kendricks.

More years passed.

As Toni’s status in the Men of Letters grew, so Baby Artie grew, though in his case, it was not by much. That is to say, his mind - like his mother’s - was far ahead of other children his age, but his stature remained diminutive. He appeared many years younger than his actual age, and his innocent countenance let him get away with murder.  _Literally_. Bernie knew this because despite Toni’s forbidding Artie to be in contact with his uncle following the mess Bernie made of Artie’s christening when he caused the priest to faint upon the sight of the carefully-crafted rat mobile gnawing its way through the gift box, his conniving nephew was proficient at hiding email trails and stashing phones. 

Artie appreciated that Bernie didn’t scold him when he told of his adventures. He’d regale Bernie with stories of his neighborhood hijinks - baptizing cats, and shooting stray hounds with pellet guns, tossing the occasional molotov at other neighborhood children - but he assured Bernie that he left the badgers alone, even trained a particularly vicious one to nip at his most recent nanny’s ankles,  did it with a dog whistle, he’d bragged. He’d sent Bernie a video, it was amazing, though Bernie still held an affinity for squirrels. He  _had_  found that Philadelphia city rats were comparable, highly trainable, offered to ship one over as he had a shoebox handy; Artie wisely declined.

And then, disaster struck.

Summer had barely begun when Artie called Bernie in near-hysterics, causing his concerned uncle to steal away to the corner of his favorite bar, trying to calm the child.

“Art, my man - chill out! You gotta slow down!”

“It’s Mummy!”

Bernie’s eyes grew wide. “You have a mummy? Did you wrap up your nanny?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Did you remember to take out her brain?”

“I mean MUMMY - my  _mother!_  She’s been in America for  _ages_ , and now she’s gone  _missing!_ ”

“Whaddya mean, missing?”

“We haven’t heard from her in over a month!”

Bernie leaned against the wall, suddenly feeling wobbly in the knees. “Artie, what was she doing here? Where was she? What—-”

“You have to find her,” Artie said, and gone was the child’s panic, his voice now more adult than his uncle’s, his tone both grave and demanding.

“How am I supposed to—-”

“I’ve wired you money for expenses. There is a plane ticket waiting for you - you’re going to Kansas City, then I’ll have a car rented for you - you have to go to a godforsaken mole hill called Lebanon.”

“I can’t do this alone!” Bernie blurted out, not bothering to argue, he knew he’d go as instructed, but he was scared.

Artie huffed, said, “Fine - I’ll arrange another ticket, bring that friend of yours, he has some sense, at least.”

Bernie felt the sting. “Artie… what’s that supposed to mean?”

Artie immediately reverted to his most innocent. “Aw, Uncle Bernie, I’m sorry. I’m frightened for Mummy. Please don’t be cross with me—” a pause for a sniffle “—I just don’t know what I might do if I thought you hated me.”

Bernie assured Artie of his love, assured him that he - and Mac - would do whatever they could to find Toni. 

Bernie and Mac missed their flight.

Much shenanigans ensued, thanks to friends of Mac’s who had warily accepted Bernie into their group, cheekily called “The Gang”.

Months passed.

Artie’s fury grew.

And finally, once a van was procured with the last of the funds Artie had provided, the duo took off for Kansas around Christmastime - but first, they stopped off at Mac’s mother’s home, knowing his stocking would already hold both candy for the road, and cash for their pockets.

It was here that Bernie regaled Mac with more tales of his love of Christmas, why he loved it so, and specifically how his own mother used to do it up right. This is when Mac said those fateful words, though he did not know just how much they would alter fate at the time. It was a simple statement, well-phrased, delicate, empathetic. Mac said:

“Based on that story that you just told me, I’m fairly certain that those Santas were running a train on your mom for money.”

Bernie stared.

“Chew on that for a second, let that settle in,” Mac added.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“ _No_.”

“ _Yes_.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Mac called out a goodbye to his mother, and herded his flailing friend to the van. Bernie continued to deny the truth of the apparent holiday prostitution festivals for several miles, but finally it  _did_ indeed settle in. And he went silent. The rest of the trip to Kansas was filled with Mac trying to cheer him, mostly with liquor and candy. Bernie vomited, but it seemed the purge helped.

By the time they’d checked into a cheap motel, Bernie was renewed, more vigor than ever. Texts to Artie were filled with confidence. He placed ads in local and regional papers. He set up a website. He crafted flyers with Antonia’s picture, had hundreds printed, plastered the town.

They questioned people wherever they went. Artie sent more money. Subsequently, Bernie questioned the strippers they then visited nightly, so as to make it a work expense. Though Mac  _did_ note Bernie’s disinterest in the stripper called Candy Cane, who was draped in glittery garland and sported the traditional red hat of the jolly old man, Santa continued to be a non-topic.

Until.

Two particular residents of Lebanon were particularly dodgy, a pair they encountered at a diner. The tall man, whose hair Mac admired with great envy, was nothing but a collection of “Ah”-s, “Um”-s, and gulps as he stared down at the flyer Bernie had shoved into his hands. The other man, with the gruff voice and deep frown, denied all knowledge as he crumbled the flyer and threw it away, finally barking a piece of advice. Just before he climbed into a muscle car, which Mac admired with great envy, the man turned to Bernie, finger right in his face, and said:

“Why don’t you go plop on Santa’s lap, tell him you want your sister for Christmas, make it a real Lifetime movie moment, but we’re  _done_ here, you got it?”

Bernie once more grew solemn. The duo sped away. Mac watched his friend carefully.

“Let’s go to the mall,” said Bernie in a low, flat voice.

Now it was Mac who gulped. “Why?”

“I think I know what happened to Toni.”

It occurred to Mac where this was heading. “Bern, she didn’t disappear around Christmas, I don’t—-”

Bernie lunged, grabbed Mac by the jacket, shook him furiously. “He’s EVERYWHERE, man. He can get to ANYBODY. This is about me, this has been about me the  _WHOLE TIME_.”

“Huh?”

Before Mac knew it, the keys to the van were snatched, tires were screeching, and he barely made it into the passenger seat, and then Molly was dropped, in which Mac participated because he was, after all, a supportive friend. In a hopped-up haze they’d arrived at the mall, then as if by magic suddenly found themselves smack in the middle of it, drawn to a makeshift North Pole, staring at all the happy people in the line leading to the tree-lined stage. Bernie trembled with anger, one of the flyers clutched in his fist.

A series of flashbacks ran through his mind: the Santas bringing him presents when he was a boy; his mother joyfully escorting them upstairs; Artie, sound asleep and safe in his bed; and Toni, missing, possibly gone forever. His eyes narrowed. He saw red.

“I won’t let him get to Artie,” Bernie said through grit teeth.

“Bern, don’t—” Mac tried, but it was for naught. Bernie had joined the line of children, his anger growing by the moment. Mac sighed and joined him.

The time finally came, and Bernie sat himself on Santa’s lap.

The costumed man blinked in surprise, glancing at Mac questioningly before asking Bernie, “What would you like for Christmas, son?”

“Did you fuck his mother?”

Santa’s jaw dropped for a moment, and he whispered, “What?”

“Did. You. Fuck. His. Mother.”

Nearby, parents covered their children’s ears.

“I don’t know what you’re—-” Santa began, but Bernie cut him off.

“You’re after my family, aren’t you? What did Toni do, she try to brain-diddle you? Take down your whole racket? Expose you for what you are? A mother-fucker?”

Mac buried his face in his hands.

“Listen, son—-”

“I’m not your son!” Bernie screamed. “And neither is Artie!”

“Who?”

Bernie held up the flyer. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know, you fat motherfucker! WHERE’S MY SISTER? I KNOW YOU TOOK MY SISTER!” Bernie turned, gesturing, addressing all the children. “HE FUCKED MY MOTHER! HE’LL FUCK YOUR MOTHERS! AND HE’LL BRING HIS ELVES TO FUCK YOUR MOTHERS, TOO, SOMETIMES THERE’LL BE FIVE AT ONCE!”

Said mothers gasped, began ushering their children away. The nearby elves were shaking their heads, bells on their caps tingling, denying the accusation. The clomping boots from the approaching security guards could be heard from all sides. Mac begged Bernie to stop, asked what Toni would think of all this.

That was when Bernie snapped. He followed Mac’s advice, did think upon Toni, thought on what Toni would _do_. And he snarled.

Bernie bit Santa, and  _hard_ , and Santa began flailing, trying to free himself from the enraged man perched on his lap. But Bernie held tightly, continued his gnawing, and blood began to seep into the fake white beard, stream down and add a shiny glaze to the already red suit. It was so much blood, in fact, that Santa almost immediately passed out, slumping, and Bernie followed him to the floor, howling like a rabid dog. The nearby patrons were screaming, pushing, shoving, knocking into each other, desperate to get away.

Bernie’s phone had gotten tossed aside in the mayhem, sliding over near Mac’s feet - it rang, and he saw it was Artie, and he answered the phone, not bothering with a greeting, cutting right to the chase. “Bernie’s gone bugfuck crazy!”

Saying it aloud - and seeing several security guards radioing for backup, others pulling out tasers - jolted Mac from his shock, and he snatched the back of Bernie’s jacket with his free hand, wrenching him from his straddled position, dragging him off of the still, unmoving Santa.

Artie huffed, asked, “What in blazes is all that noise?”

“He attacked Santa Claus! I’m trying to get him outta here, the security guards are—-”

“He  _WHAT?!_  What does bloody Father Christmas have to do with finding—-”

“Bloody is right! He  _bit_ him! I think the dude is dead!”

Carols served as a backing track for their escape, Mannheim Steamroller sharp in their ears as they rushed through the shoppers, plowing them down if need be, Mac practically throwing Bernie into the back of the van, then jumping into the driver’s seat and peeling out of the parking lot.

“ANSWER ME, CRETIN!”

Mac had shoved the phone into his front jacket pocket, apparently with Artie still on the line, as the boy’s shrill voice was so loud he heard it despite it not being on speaker and despite the fact that Bernie was right behind him, curled into a fetal position, sucking his thumb and rocking back and forth, noisily sobbing. Mac took a hairpin turn down an alley, sirens not far enough in the distance for him to feel comfortable, and after he’d cut the engine, he dug out the phone, put it on speaker officially, and tossed it to the dashboard.

Mac ran his hands through his hair nervously, saying, “Man, this is bad. Artie, we’re in real—-”

“I’m done with the both of you gits. I’ve managed to make contact with one of mother’s associates - the  _only one_ who is  _left_ from the mission to your godforsaken land. I’m told the cockney twit who always sucked up to me is dead, as is The Crone. You’ve been useless, I should’ve handled this myself from the start.” Artie stopped addressing Mac, yelling out, “BERNIE?!”

Bernie sniffled. “Yeah, Art?”

“Lose. My. Number." 

The call ended.

Artie’s tone had been cold -  _frigid_ , in fact. It reminded him of his mother. But it especially reminded him of his sister. And that made Bernie smile.

.

* * *

.

While he packed, Artie listened to the man with the smooth voice as he detailed the plan.

”…..and it will essentially give him a new existence entirely, now known as Charlie. I’ve already arranged for the same procedures to take place on the woman who will serve as his mother, the friend you mentioned, and his other… associates, the ones from the pub, the waitress he fancies, his financial manager. Any others can be taken care of as they pop up, but you’re certain those are the only persons to whom he is close? There’s no need to attend to your family?“

"They’ll happily forget about Bernie on their own, no need.” A pause. “Shall we just have him killed?”

“Mmmm. Such passion at so young an age.”

“You disapprove?”

“No. I understand your desire for your uncle’s comeuppance. But he may be of use to you later - you must think ahead.”

“Fine,” said Artie with a disappointed sigh.

“For now, he’ll believe he’s always been an American living in Philadelphia. Nice, sunny life for the moron. Though, if you like, I can see to it Bernard Bevell is declared dead. A token of appreciation on my part, an official good riddance. I did cherish my time with your mother - no matter her whereabouts, she’ll be missed. Lady Bevell was such a gift to all of us.”

Artie stopped his packing, gave the phone a bit of side-eye. “You sound as if you’re giving condolences. If Mummy is dead—–”

“My boy, we will work together to find out what exactly happened, and I will be pleased to help you exact any vengeance you deem necessary.”

“And this won’t inconvenience you?”

“I have some time on my hands. I’ll have to pop away on occasion, but I trust your self-sufficiency. Besides, I think we have a great deal in common. I would be pleased to act as your mentor, that isn’t merely a story for your grandparents.”

Artie pondered on this for a moment, then said, “Yes. I do believe I’d benefit from your tutelage.”

“Then it’s settled. When can I expect you?”

Artie stuffed his teddy bear into his backpack, hoisted it onto his shoulder, and picked up his phone, walking out of his room and down the hallway, ignoring the muffled cries from his tied-and-gagged nanny in the closet. “I’m on my way to the airport now.”

“You have suitable transportation, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I look forward to your arrival, Mr. Bevell.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ketch.”

In the garage, Artie climbed upon his scooter and donned his helmet, then sped off, visions of motorcycles dancing in his head.

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_(Author's Note #2: Pssssst..... yes, Artie is short for "Arthur".... as in Arthur Ketch.... I am not sorry for planting this idea in your heads.... tee-hee-hee)_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed. -Nash


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